A fruitful night of dreams

Last night, I was blocking Notre Dame tight end John Carlson while Michigan ran a slow-developing run play. I learned that I couldn't hold him very long because he weighed 273 pounds, but that I was much more successful when I took my feet off the ottoman. (To be clear, I mean the furniture; there were no 19th century Turks on the field).

Anyway, when I say slow-developing play, I mean it. I ran downfield to block while the other 10 players stayed motionless. I guess it was a trick play. Once I got my block on Carlson, who appeared to be the only Notre Dame defender, Henne scooted around the other end and appeared in the end zone on his side in the fetal position. No one could find the ball, then they looked at Henne. He had it. It was 14-7 Michigan, early on. It had all been too easy, so Notre Dame was complaining. Especially the dude I just blocked (who seemed pretty cool) and someone who I think was Brady Quinn, who had somehow shown up.

Then everyone agreed to take the touchdown off the board, and I was mad because somehow my sympathy to Notre Dame's plight had allowed this to happen.

Mercy is for the weak.

Later, I was parking my Volkswagen in one of the two spots reserved for me in a parking lot as a doctoral candidate in International Affairs. I didn't do a very good job, and wound up taking about three cracks at the spot, looping over the sidewalk, across the street and even through a field, mostly because the brakes didn't work great, and I was trying to steer with one hand while holding a very full cup of coffee in the other. You'll be pleased to know I didn't spill a drop.

Once I got that squared away, I ran into two plainclothes cops. Los Angeles Police Department officers Dee Dee McCall and Rick Hunter had me help them break into an apartment. They left me and another person they'd apparently recruited off the street to hold down the fort, armed with a sickle and a bowie knife. Some friends later showed up to drink wine with us. The next day I showered in a moldy shower and checked my e-mail in one of the bedrooms at the apartment. I couldn't remember who won the Michigan-Notre Dame game the day before, but I reasoned since I had repressed the result, we must have lost. I used my laptop, which I had covered in wood-paneling stickers, to check MGoBlog for the score, but all that was up was a cryptic message referencing an inside joke I didn't get. And I was pissed, because I was like "Man, I could have sworn we were winning earlier.

You guys wait here. We'll be back after we go see what Sporty has to say.

Questions raised:

• Why was there an ottoman on the field? Does it make more sense if I tell you the game was happening in someone's living room, which it totally was?
• Why was a tight end playing defense?
• Seriously? A Ph.D in international affairs? I like reading A Fistful of Euros, but that seems a bit much.
  
• What's with the theme of me being recruited to join in and help out?
• Dude, wood paneling? I guess if I really wanted to be ironic, I'd have a little coal chute on there.

Lessons learned:

• Give fucking Notre Dame an inch and they'll take a mile. Seriously.
  
• Even Michigan's most innovative trick plays are slow and frustrating.
  
• Stay low for leverage when blocking someone much bigger than you.
• Two hands on the wheel at all times seems like a best practice.
• I clearly am sweating this game more than I let on.
  
• Make sure your friends coordinate their wine coverage, or otherwise they might all bring white, leaving you without any red.
  
• Scythesupply.com isn't as up on sickles as they are on scythes, but they are enthusiastic and gamely willing to help with any questions you might have.

Without this, comrade, weeds whack you! HA!